


Toying with time

by teepotty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Harry Potter Raises Tom Riddle, Harry Potter's Name is Hadrian, House Peverell, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Morally Grey Harry Potter, Not your usual Harry raises Tom fiction, Riddle at Hogwarts Era, Sane Tom Riddle, Time Travel, Time Travelling Harry Potter, Timeline What Timeline, Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter), Young Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23620639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teepotty/pseuds/teepotty
Summary: Harry wakes up, barely eighteen and already war-weary, to a world tore down by another power grabbing warlock — The Dark Lord Turian. At first, he is determined to bide his time — perhaps even enjoy the life Ron always told him to get — and rid history of Lord Voldemort once and for all .. but finds himself, when the time comes, raising a surprisingly endearing Tom Riddle.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 66
Kudos: 241





	1. A Look into the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The great battle - the end of the greatest of all wars. Albus should feel happy, in hindsight. He should feel relieved, for Grindelwald is defeated and a threat no more, so why doesn't he?
> 
> Or, Dumbledore faces his repressed emotions and meets with a strange fella who hasn't been seen in more than half a century.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the timeline, Grindelwald is defeated much earlier, when Tom is twelve. The story will be long, we wouldn't be seeing him soon, so bear with me. I really hope you enjoy it.

**T** he day is grey and bitter — not unlike himself.

Albus Dumbledore stands, an air of palpable defeat surrounding him, towering over his once lover. His eyes are moist — and his heart .. His heart is heavy, so very heavy that he wants to drop to his knees, and let it all out.

He wills himself not to cry.

 _Over_ , he tells himself. _It_ _is_ _over_.

 _But is it ever?_ He is tense, afraid, and the silence is loud. It’s unexpected, and too, too loud. It feels like the very beginning, and suddenly, he is twenty once again, a green man whose sister’s screams are akin to a thousand piercing swords. The memory surfaces without much effort, for it never entirely leaves his mind — Gellert’s young, handsome face had been open at last, and he remembers seeing the betrayal, the shock, the fear morphing into an apologetic, distraught expression, very much like the one he had landed eyes on a few minutes ago.

He remembers — remembers how Arianna had been pale — too pale, too quiet — and he had not dared believe it, even as his brother’s animalistic groan echoes, loud and vibrant and nothing like the dignified, sullen Aberforth. He dares not breathe — the terrible loss and anguish are too great, too sudden, and he — he _can’t_ —

It was — _is_ — too much. There is nothing freeing, nothing relieving about the whole business, no matter how old it is. The scarring is too deep, too sharply cut, the hole in his heart too enormous, threatening to sink everything within him. He _should_ at least feel free, he rationalizes. After all these years — these _dreadful_ , painful years Gellert had forced all of them to live through — had he not deserve that, the exaltation of freedom?

The answer comes swiftly, and a dark, traitorous voice in the back of his mind hisses back the question mockingly. _Peace is unreachable to you_ , it tells him, and he knows it to be true, _for you cannot obtain it by ignoring life_.

 _Yes_ , and the realization is nothing short of painful, but he is not one to delude himself. He had forsaken peace a long, long time ago, in the name of the Greater Good. He is forsaking it now, as he stands before _him_.

The resignation settles in, unbearable but familiar, and Albus lets out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

He thinks that's _it_ , this his perdition, except it leaves him feeling shameful, because this? Oh, he can live with it alright, this old, ever-present feeling. He knows it all well, had felt it first when he'd been nine, forced to bear his family's shame, forced into filling his position as the head of house, promising his father that yes, he'll be brave, yes, he'll look after his mother and siblings, _yes, Papa, I'll make sure that those boys will never touch Ariana again. I'll make you proud._

He'd never seen his father again, after that terrible, terrible summer day when he'd been taken away - that terrible day which had started _so_ well. It's for the best, too, for the promise Albus had made his father had not only been disregarded, but broken in the wickedest of ways.

Broken for the wickedest person.

And so ever since, this cold, hard lump had shadowed him, invisible to all but forever holding his soul captive of the repent he desperately wishes for. An unfair punishment for the crimes he's committed, for Albus seldom feels its wrath as he goes about his day. 

For a moment, there's silence. He almost deludes himself into thinking this is over.

At long last.

But the voice is not finished, however, and it takes great pleasure in breaking what is left of his heart. _The Greater Good_ , _yes_ , it taunts, and he is reminded of his brother’s snarled words, of Ariana's still form. _Lots of good it did you, ha! All you have now is what is in front of you: a war that was not yours to win, and yet, even in this, you have greatly lost. There is little left for you now, to enjoy and to live for — besides absolving yourself of your sins._

Gellert’s bloodied face, with his dull mismatched eyes and thinned, torn lips, holds no comfort for him. _Was this the same man he had sworn his life to?_ Albus allows his gaze to roam over him again, from the dark, red spot below his eyes, more pronounced than ever, to the curve of his cheeks. He sees his neck, studies the seemingly deep cut on the base of his throat, and enjoys the tightness of his jaw. He's completely still except for the rising and falling of his chest. For once, there is no calculation in his expression, no cockiness or smug pretension, just an acceptance of whatever awaits him.

It pains him. This man that he almost couldn't recognize, _because there's nothing left of him_ , this man he'd've conquered the world with, is as good as dead, wand — dragon heartstrings, black nut, eleven inch — torn in half, and army scattered around the globe and hunted down. He is finished and, dare he say it, heartbroken.

_Two peas in a pod._

A fitting end. A fitting reward.

 _His prize, ha!_ This is no prize at all. This is his price for absolution. His lover’s normally expressive eyes — blank, blank, there is nothing of the man he knows like the back of his hand, nothing at all — do not leave his. They trace his face in a way that is far too inappropriate for a situation like this one, and Albus is ashamed to admit that he revels in it.

The Aurors’ hands are firmly holding him down, squeezing harshly, painfully, and yet Gellert doesn’t as much as twitch. His eyes are still on Albus, and Albus alone, as if no one but him is deserving of his attention. It is only then that he realizes that someone is speaking to him. The words don’t reach his ears, and he doesn’t turn around, doesn’t react to the fingers gently laid on his shoulders — cannot bring himself to care, really. There is only Gellert.

There has always only been him.

_He, too, will be gone, soon. Leaving you as well, as your parents and brother and sister did before him, and you will be all alone. And you will have no one to blame but yourself, for all of this is your burden to carry._

And then Gellert — whose masterly of Occlumency had left even Albus breathless on more than one occasion — does something he had never even dare hope — had not thought it possible to happen. He _trusts_ Albus — fully, inexplicably — with his most precious possession, lowering his shields just enough for a glimpse, and for a long moment, Albus is submerged.

Then he is hit with the thundering force of all these emotions Gellert had hidden from him — one blow after the other, until his lover’s deep voice rises to strike the killing blow. _Despite all the lies and backstabbing, I trusted you._ His mind is open to him, at last, a long-awaited show of faith — one that Albus couldn’t in right conscience enjoy now. _It was my downfall, in the end. After everything we’ve been through, how could you —_

 _Gellert, I —_ he tries to speak over the indignation, tries to explain, but Gellert’s voice, stronger and final and shaking with an emotion he couldn’t quite decipher, leaves no room for argument. A thousand apologies rise in him, and yet none passes his lips ... None dares.

 _But it doesn’t really matter now, does it?_ It takes him a second to realize that the cackles that follow his words are not imagined, and it makes him feel like the wretched villain instead of the hailed hero. Gellert always does know how to play his mind, making him feel guilty for doing what is right.

He sounds amused, this handsome, brilliant man of his ( _but had he ever been that?_ ), as he continues his blasts on his heart, tone almost wistful. He is standing now, supported by four Aurors, a dozen _more_ hot on his tails, looking more animal than human, chained down and caged as he is, and yet it doesn’t even seem to affect him in the slightest. _It doesn’t surprise me,_ he adds. _Between you and I, I have always been the weakest, haven’t I, when it comes to striking down the one I love. I should have seen it coming, shouldn’t I? You will always choose them — over me. They will always be your number one priority._

Shames washes over Albus, and he almost closes his eyes. He realizes what he is trying to say — _the one I love_ — and freezes. Gellert smiles, a pained, wicked smile, as if to say, _you will never be free of me now._

 _Yes, Al, I love you. Of course, I do. I always have. Can you say the same?_ Three words, a long-awaited confession, and the impact is so big that Albus doesn’t have the time to say them back, for his lover is gone.

He is _gone_. Forever out of his reach — not at all the forever he had once promised him — gone away, with Albus’ dreams, and hopes, and most importantly, his _heart_.

It takes a while to realize that it is not raining, no. It takes him twice as long to understand why his face is wet. He _is_ weeping — big, crocodile, bitter tears — and he feels as if the world is grieving with him, too.

* * *

_He isn’t sure who moved first — all he knows is that they are too close, close enough that he can feel Gellert’s hot breath against his throat._

_He is bending down. Hesitant. Their lips brush. Softly. Tentatively. Quickly. Like a whisper._

_Mismatched eyes gauge his reaction. Albus doesn’t imagine the nervousness in them, and so, for the very first time in his life, he does something he never thought he’d ever be given the chance to do: he takes the lead. His hands come up, fingers intertwining through his hair — golden hair that Albus loves dearly._

_Gellert kisses him again, this time not at all quick. Albus opens his lips — and the kiss goes deep, right to his soul. Gellert’s arms are around him, wrapping him like a warm blanket he wonders how he could have gone this long without._

_“This — ” He tells him, panting, the image of youth and boldness, “this_ is _forever.”_

_This golden boy. His golden, golden boy._

_Albus smiles against him, feeling electricity through his entire being, “promise me.”_

_“I promise.”_

* * *

“Allow me,” says a voice. It is pleasant, ironical, quiet too. A contrast to what Albus had expected, but a welcome one.

He stares. The man — he looks rather young, late twenties, early-thirties perhaps? — seems at ease before him, as if he is not standing next to Albus Dumbledore, fearless leader of the Light and — and _defeater_ of Gellert Grindelwald. Or so they are calling him.

He is of another opinion, however, when he is forced to name his exploits and yesterday’s events. _The one and only betrayer, who destroyed his lover and would do it again in a heartbeat, if ever given the chance._ He attempts to ignore the hissing voice, but the task is proving to be extremely difficult to fulfill, when he agrees, somewhat reluctantly, with it.

The familiar sense of failure settles in comfortably, finally at home once more. Another friend of his.

Without waiting for a response — Albus wonders what it is he is to allow — the man pulls the door shut with a click of his wrist, sets the chair behind the desk and takes a seat.

Albus raises his eyebrows. _Impressive magic work_ , he thinks despite himself, the teacher in him nodding enthusiastically.

The man flashes him a grin, green eyes settling on Albus, waiting, appraising.

There is a long pause, and when Albus finally speaks, he realizes he hasn’t done so in hours. “Yes?” He asks, ignoring how his voice comes out like a croak.

“I am sorry,” the boy — _man_ , Albus corrects himself mentally — says. His bright eyes are so very clear. “I am terribly sorry for your loss, sir.”

“My loss?” Albus repeats, astounded. Those he had met had congratulated him — are proud and relieved and indebted, more than they would ever know. There are those who sank to their knees, who bowed when presented to him. They look at him with worship in their eyes, wonder in their faces, and think, _hero_. They make him squirm. If only they knew how undeserving he is of their praises — of the atrocious reality of his crimes.

He loathes himself for not sharing their joy, and thinks that to this man, it must have been very apparent. Still, to say a thing _like_ that, in times such as these they’re living in .. What a peculiar, bold man. An unspeakable, undoubtedly, judging by the .. almost _insulting_ lack of diverse colors in his robes and cloak. There is no badge, no ornament that points to his true position — it is as if he wishes to disappear into the shadows, clad in black as he is.

Albus knows the sentiment well.

The man smiles again. This time, it is an understanding smile.

 _Could it be,_ Albus thinks, heart lurching hopefully, _that this man — a little much more than a boy — understood his pain? Was he not alone, then, in his misery, in his grief?_ At once, the irresistible urge to pour his heart out, to seek the counsel he had been time and again denied overwhelms him, and he briskly swallows it down.

_Control yourself, by Merlin._

Then the man stretches his fingers, and as Albus catches the calculated movement, all pretense of control is lost to him. His attention is on the rings, one whose sigil he knows only too well. The Deathly Hollows, symbol of House Peverell.

 _It cannot be._ His eyes wander to the second ring. The proud, golden eagle is staring back at him in defiance.

“House Flamel’s golden eagle,” Albus hears himself say, with a surety one acquires only through irrevocable experience. He had a cloak with the very same seal, gifted to him by the lady of the house. He blinks at the man. “You—”

“Yes.”

“But—”

“Hadrian Peverell, sir. At your service.”

Albus waves his hand, an expression of reverence taking hold of his face. “You do not have to call me that. If anything, I should.”

Lord Peverell smiles once more. “You are far too kind.”

He is remarkably good-looking, face pale and features cleanly defined and neatly perfect under a shock of dark hair he kept unkept. Albus is uneasily reminded of Tom Riddle, twelve years old and already making nervous. The both of them could easily pass for father and son — physical attributes aside, they also shared an easy grace and charming persona that Gellert _favored_ —

“Please, call me Hadrian,” he says, interrupting Albus’ line of thoughts. “Or Harry, if you’d like. After all, we are practically family.”

Albus shakes his head ; he remembers growing up hearing stories about Hadrian Peverell, and here is the man calling him _family_. “Oh?”

“Indeed. You’re as much Nick’s pupil as I once was, a long time ago — and he and I are closer in age than you will ever be. In fact, compared to _us_ —”

“I am but a child.” It is disconcerting, knowing that this man, who looked no older than thirty-five, had lived five centuries and fought in more wars than Albus could name. It is also why his neutrality — his refusal to become engrossed in this one — had spread a sense of dread throughout the Magical World. If Hadrian Peverell had acted when he had been _not_ _asked_ , but _begged_ to, the outcomes of this war might have been different, very different indeed.

 _I wouldn’t have stained my hands bloody._ But then, Albus had no rooms to talk; he, too, is guilty of inactions, among many, many other things.

When Lord Peverell — _Hadrian_ — speaks up, it is with a soft voice. “He sent me to check on you, our father. To see for myself if you are alright.”

“He is not my father,” Albus forces the words out. “And I am fine, thank you. How did you — ”

“— convince them to let me speak to you?” He laughs in disbelief, as if the mere thought of doubting him is insulting. Albus feels himself flush. “Please. Do you _even_ need to ask? Mind controlled the lot of them, of course. Ah! Don’t look so disapproving now, Albus. It was for a good cause — and they think me a _qualified_ English Auror, of all things. As if such a thing exists! _Germans_ are so easy to manipulate, contrary to popular belief. You will be off with no repercussions, of course. Not that you deserve it.”

“I —”

“You did, after all, save the world from big, bad, Gellert Grindelwald — and single handedly stopped a war.”

 _And costed half a million galleons in damages_ , Lord Hadrian’s smirk means to convey. There is something almost conspiratorially about it.

Albus flatters. The way the words had been said — pointedly, easily, with a touch of teasing that he picked on only because he is a teacher in his own right — and the raised eyebrows, the knowing stare, the imprudent comment at the beginning .. Of course, _he_ suspects. It is rather evident, if one knows where to look.

It had, after all, taken Albus over a decade to finally face Gellert, the Ministry’s urging be damned.

There is, however, no revulsion in Hadrian Peverell’s bright eyes. Albus is even surprised to find compassion.

“There is no shame in feeling pain.”

“You said it yourself. Big, bad, Gellert Grindelwald —”

“Albus — I didn’t mean it _that_ way —

“He got what he deserved, in the end.”

Not a flicker of change passes over the man’s expression, not even at the bitterly repeated statement, “what do you feel, Albus?”

 _This is no business of yours_ , Albus wants to snap, _you forsaken us, left us to deal with all of that alone._ But there is something about the calming aura surrounding them, something about the way the older man is staring at him.

 _He has lived through this before_ , Albus is sure.

“I love him.”

God help him, but he did — _does_ — will perhaps always do. For so long, it had been his one and only truth; a painful one, yes, but the most sincere he’s been with himself. Gellert had touched him in a way no one ever did, had secretly danced inside his heart where no one else can see (no one but the haughty Lord of Peverell, it seems). There’s something about him that, even now, makes Albus incredibly hopeful, and he won’t give it up, this feeling, this certainty that he had grown accustomed to. _Never_.

Hadrian Peverell remains silent for several seconds before responding. “I know you do.”

“Fighting him broke my heart,” he admits. It feels good, letting such words flow out of him, and not being judged for it.

“I was afraid it would,” Lord Peverell pauses, lost in thoughts, then studies him intensely. “Do you regret it?”

 _Does he regret it?_ The question, innocently said but hitting him hard all the same, awakens something dark in him, breaks whatever walls he’s built. He feels as if he is going to explode — the anger, the guilt — they tore at his heart in the most horrifying way possible. “I could have done more,” he says, forcing a calmness he doesn’t feel into his voice. He continues before the other man had any chance of interrupting, “I _could_ have. I might have helped him. I might have stopped him, if only he had let me _in_ , if I had been more forceful, less of a coward. He gave me no chance — no one did — and to tell you the truth, I gave myself none, too.”

Hadrian had been staring at Albus with blank eyes throughout his rant. Whatever he is seeing, Albus doesn’t know. “Would it have made a difference?”

A chill cuts through the heat of his rage at the words. “I don’t know,” he swallows, _hard_. “But the uncertainty of it all is killing me, it really is — it was all I could do, stopping him. He was killing innocents, bringing not the peace and glory he had been seeking once upon a time, but war and chaos whenever he went. I couldn’t let it pass .. _no more_.”

His chest lurches with heavy breaths. He realizes he is crying only when Hadrian Peverell, one of the highest lords there is — a man he had idolized in his early teen years and respected ever since, how absurd is _that_ — rests a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“You have been through an ordeal, my dearest child. I didn’t realize the extent of it, but I should have seen it. Feel no shame, no guilt, for it is no fault of yours. You are _not_ to blame for his actions, for the path he had taken. Or for the one he had forsaken.”

Albus feels a sudden weariness, as if all his strength had seeped out of him, leaving him with nothing. “But I am. I supported him — ”

“ _No_ , you supported a vision, an ideal, understood your mistake in the end and repented. You were a seventeen years old boy. Listen to me, child,” Lord Hadrian urges. “Do not lose yourself to pain and anger. Grindelwald was in his right mind, everything he did, he did of his own accord, and now he is now repenting, as you did before him, for the mistakes he has made. Life is bright, and brighter still, though you may not see it, so I beg this of you — hold on. You loved, and were loved in return, that I do not doubt, but it is not the end. Cherish this love, let it be free .. let yourself be that, for it is a choice. You have to want _it_.”

Albus sniffled. He feels decades younger than his age — how _long_ had he waited for someone to tell him what he himself had never wanted to see, that he too is deserving of things Gellert could have never freely given, that he is perhaps not as monstrous as he believes himself to be? It is only fitting than the one in question who is saying all of this, reassuring Albus of his humanity, is the one who had seen it all, had lived more lives than he had touched.

“We do not choose whom we love, dear sir. If we did, life would be a lot more simpler, I believe. And take it from someone who is experienced in the way of Life and Death: simple, it is not supposed to be,” Lord Peverell looks right at him, with a glint in his eyes that Albus doesn’t know what to make of, and adds longingly, “a wise man once told me that it is our actions that show who we truly are, and yours certainly made a great spectacle of that. You are alive, be thankful for that, and make the best out of it.”

 _Make the best out of it_ , six words he had taken to heart and had lived by ever since they had been spoken to him _._ Albus opens his eyes. He is no longer the fifty-eight years old man he had been when he had met the eligible, late Lord of Peverell. He stands, this time tall and proud, in the center of the Great Hall, staring at hundreds of faces and memorizing each.

He meets a pair of bright, green eyes — _familiar eyes, clear eyes_ — tucked behind round glasses and a scar-free face, and smiles encouragingly at the wonder-struck expression the first year Slytherin is throwing him. From beside him, Tom Riddle surveys the new additions to his House, and there is something vacant in his gaze.

“Welcome,” he says, his arms wide open. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words—”

“Don’t do it,” mutters Tom exasperatingly.

“And here they are,” continues Albus, beaming with satisfaction, “ _Nitwit_! _Blubber_! _Oddment_! _Tweak_! _”_

“I have officially lost all faith in you,” the Head of Slytherin tells him when he finally sits down.

Albus hums, not at all affected. “I’m surprised it took this long.”


	2. A Look into the Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He bits back the lump in his throat. For all his bravado, Harry is afraid. “He killed me, in the forest, didn’t he — it was just a matter of time, wasn’t it? I never stood a chance —” 
> 
> Death’s face softens. “Calm down, my dearest child, and think.”
> 
> “He took my blood — the night Cedric died — and so we were linked. Linked enough that — that I couldn’t properly die because he wasn’t dead. Because he was alive, and — and he tethered me to life, didn’t he? But now that he’s gone, so is my last connection to life .. He killed me for good in the forest,” he repeats duly, his hysteria subsiding, turning into something he’s familiar with.
> 
> Grief. For the life he could have had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed and left kudos. It means a lot to me.

**H** e starts his new life in the most peculiar of ways — standing up, surrounded by a dazzling light that almost blinds him from its sheer intensity. He covers his face, dumbly realizes that there is nothing there, that he isn’t wearing _glasses_ , and then doesn’t understand why it bothers him _that_ much. He risks a glance — _bad move_.

The light keeps on expanding, keeps on getting brighter and brighter. The room he is in is large and impossibly clean, and familiar, very much so, and yet inexplicably, he doesn’t know why — he cannot remember, why can’t he _remember_ —

And then there’s a loud _thud_ , and _snapping_ , and _screaming_ , and he clutches his ears. The scream — a woman’s scream — echoes, and it hurts to stand there and do nothing. He knows it by heart by now, can relate to its pain and anger — he had heard it many times before, he is sure of that, but it doesn’t lessen the unbearably painful blow. The sense of _déjà vu_ irks him, and he wills himself to open his eyes again, against his better judgment.

There’s _nothing_ , just like he had expected. A cool darkness had swallowed the room whole — and him with it — and he shivers. Not from the cold, no. He can feel something stirring in the air, and he isn’t sure it’s safe at all.

He realizes he is shaking, and bits the inside of his cheeks. He puts his arms over his shoulders as if he were hugging himself — an already doomed search for warmth — and tries his best to ignore what is happening around him. The sounds are everything and nowhere — so are the smells. A dusty, stale sense .. the steady drip of water echoing .. whispers of a life that once was ..

It is the smells that set him on edge. The voices, he can ignore, but not the _smells_. It reminds him of something he doesn’t wish to think about .. of a night in a cave that feels like a lifetime ago .. of why and how he is _here_ , alive and yet cold, clear of mind and yet unable to breathe.

I _’m Harry_ , the thought suddenly comes to him. _Harry Potter_. He sighs, relieved. _Harry James Potter. That’s a good thing, right? An excellent thing._ He lets out a laugh _, I finally remember —_

It happens so fast that Harry doesn’t have the time to react — because _of course his victory is short lived_. His cheeks are burning, and he can’t move. He can’t make a sound — or scream for help, though he knows both actions are rather useless. His back strikes a hard metal, drops of sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air.

 _Come on, Harry._ He tries to move again, but to no avail. He wants to cry, but no tears came. He could only sit there, alone, waiting for another blow.

He sinks to the floor, trying and failing to put his legs up. _Come on!_ The harsh sounds of chains and pulleys reach his ears — _what is this, what is it_ — his panic is apparent, he is breathing fast, too fast, _he can’t concentrate_ —

“ _Harry_ .. _Potter_ ..”

The voice shakes the floor beneath him. It is deep, and ancient, and powerful. Harry freezes.

 _Wha-What was that?_ He must have imagined it — he stays still for a minute or two, and thinks that he must be going mad, because surely no one’s calling his name —

“ _Harry_ .. _Potter_ ..”

He yelps, forcing himself to calm down. “What’s—”

“ _How we meet .. once again .._ ”

He feels a worrying shudder in his chest. “Who are you?” He asks, sounding exhausted and confused. He almost shakes his head at himself — there’s no need to alarm a potential enemy of how weak he is feeling. Of how he’s incapable of defending himself.

A click, like that of a light switch, resonates, and Harry blinks. After so long in darkness, the light stabs his eyes.

“ _Well, well_ ,” it says mockingly, “ _the Wizarding World’s … greatest hero, I believe it is what they’re calling you now .. If only they could see what .. a pitiful picture you make .. a shame, truly_ — ”

Rage boils inside of him. “Who — are — you?” Harry repeats through gritted teeth.

“ _Men_. _. so impatient_ ..” hisses the voices softly, “ _very .. well .. then.._ ”

The shadow stills, dissolving into doors — long and imposing, and marked with ruins. _A portal of some sort,_ Harry thinks to himself, _like the ones Bill spoke of._ Strangely enough, the fear had subsided, replaced by a curiosity that borderlines on hysterical.

A man comes of the opening gate. He stands tall and dark, and Harry understands his mistake at once. _This is no man._ His wings are black and twice Harry’s size, and his eyes are an unearthly purple. His god-like features are sharp and perfectly drawn, and a thick tangle of silvery blonde curls drips down past his high velvet collar.

For a split second, all Harry does is stare at him in wonder. He closes his mouth when he realizes, with embarrassment, that it is wide open. The man smiles — a cold, perfect smile that has Harry shudder.

He is still in shock when the man — not a _man_ , he corrects himself, but a deity, surely — speaks, and his — _its?_ — voice differs from the hissing sounds of earlier only by its hoarseness. “There is no use pretending you don’t know me.”

The words leave his mouth automatically, without much thought. “Death.”

“Such a smart boy,” It praises, titling its head in consideration. It is beautiful, nothing at all like the black skeleton Harry had envisioned — not the dark skull and sinister smile and the long, long shroud. Well, that’s not true — the sinister smile is very well spotted, but there is no scythe, and he isn’t feeling this unconquered fear people talk of when they speak of their upcoming doom.

Indeed, Death doesn’t seem quite as dangerous and menacing as he believed it would be. _Or perhaps it’s hidden — a monstrous side behind the human face?_ _Perhaps It wishes to make me at ease — before It strikes?_

And at ease he is, for Death stands before him in the image of the prettiest of men, alarmingly successful in charming him with the deepest, loveliest of voices. _Figures_ , Harry thinks. _It has one job, and a job only — tempting men into accepting their death. I doubt it’d be easy, if It was as monstrous as everyone expect It to be._

_But .. why was he here? Was there — anything to be tempted here?_

“What happened?” For all he had wrecked his mind, Harry couldn’t for the life of him figure what he’s doing here — and if his suspicions, deeply hidden inside a slowly accepting heart, are true, then how had he died? One second he is standing in the Great Hall, victorious, looking at a thousand of relieved faces, the Elder Wand in hand, and the other he is here, where he had last left Dumbledore with his benevolent smile and guilty eyes and wise words.

_Words that had condemned him._

“Ah! Now, now — didn’t I just say that you were a smart boy? Why did you have to go and prove me wrong?”

Harry ignores the jibe, focusing instead on the way Death’s staring at him, reverence and puzzlement the most prominent emotions his purple eyes display. But there is something else on its’ beautiful face, something Harry cannot quite name, but which is familiar in a heart-wrenching way.

His own bewilderment only increases. “Why am I here, then?”

There is a pause. “Do you even need to ask? Is that how this will go, Harry — you asking question you already know the answer to, and I forcing myself to politely explain?”

“How could you possibly believe that I know _anything_ ,” says Harry sharply, the stinging in his eyes growing strong enough that he knows how pathetic he not only sounds, but looks as well. “If it is true — if I’m dead, then why- why am I not with _them_?”

_With Sirius. With his parents._

_His family._

He rubs his eyes. “This is just a dream — ” he whispers frantically. “I’m just tired — yes, that’s it. I’m just tired and imagining things. This can’t be happening. It’s not real —”

“Oh, but it is real. You have always suspected it, dearest child, in your heart of hearts. Do tell me your thoughts — yours are strangely hidden from me, tugged away by my sister’s will,” here, Death frowns, “not that it is surprising, or unexpected. It just makes the task so much harder, and oh _so_ boring.”

_What?_

“I — I’m — ”

“Well?” Death prompts. “I feel I should warn you .. thoughts hidden or not, should you ever attempt to lie, I _will_ know. And I wouldn’t like it. Speak truthfully, child. Tell me everything which comes to mind.”

Looking at It now, truly _looking_ at its perched form, standing there waiting for him to speak, to lead the conversation, Harry’s hit with the sudden realization that it had been true. All those legends, those myths — those _warnings_ — there has been some truths in them, a truth he and Hermione did their best to ignore.

“I am the Master of Death.”

The effects are immediate. Its face contorts into an angry snarl, and Its eyes harden. The unearthly purple of his eyes — so bright it’s almost white — stands out unperturbed and calm in a face that is neither. “Yes, you are,” its voice takes a childlike petulance that would have amused Harry — had the situation not been one where he is, once again, in eminent danger.

Harry winces, ignoring the way his heart wants to flee his body, and tries to calm himself. _This isn’t what he’s expecting me to say. He wouldn’t want me to lord my new position over him. Maybe playing nice would help._ He musters the courage to utter his next words, forcing his face into a mask of expressionless that resembles Snape’s — masking his emotions for the same reasons his old Professor did his, to save his skin — and then, he spoke up, though with less impudence than before, “forgive me — er, my lord. It is not my place to .. unrightfully claim such a title.”

_But it is mine all the same._

Death’s eyes flash, satisfied. “Indeed, it is not.”

 _How it must gall It_ , Harry thinks, _must eat at It — to serve those who by all means are It’s inferiors._ He restrains his laughter, suddenly very pleased with himself, and continues in a ridiculously monotonous voice that seems to please Death. “I held all three Hallows in my hands, sir. But not only that, not only .. See, the wand, I wield it. Felt its power, and embraced it. The stone, I used it, felt the sweetest touch of death, seen the decayed bodies anew themselves, and the cloak .. why, it has saved me and mines for many a year.”

 _Merlin, but do I sound posh._ He stops himself from smirking. _Bet that’s how Malfoy speaks at home._ There has never been a time where he hadn’t sought to project that meek boy image the Dursley’s had always loved so much — the proof of the extent of their so called control over their freakish nephew. He finds it makes him look less threatening, and more prone to being underestimated, sometimes even cast _aside_.

In this context, perhaps to spare himself from Death’s anger. Or from getting hurt; would It dare wound him? If It wishes to — then who would stop It? He doesn’t know what benefits his new title brings — he can see, now, the advantages his old one used to give him.

Can now understand the appeal, emphasize with Ron’s jealousy and Hermione’s undisguised envy. But cognizance comes only when it’s no longer needed — when the title which is his by right has been taken from him.

 _The Boy-Who-Lived_. Until he hadn’t. He’d always been just that, the one who’s going to survive what’s thrown in his way, whatever the costs, whatever the deaths and no matter how red the blood on his hands gets.

The Boy-Who-Lived, had come to die. Came home to breathe his last — to Hogwarts, to the first home he remembers — sealing his fate in doing so.

A fate that had seemingly been foretold. Had he ever given himself a minute to process it all? To catch his breath, to figure it all out — to truly understand what it meant?

_The Chosen One._

But chosen for _what_? He wouldn’t be here, if his destiny’s fulfilled.

“What a well-spoken boy,” says Death, face betraying nothing. It waves an elegant, white hand, seemingly not aware of Harry’s increasing frustration. “Do stand up, Harry Potter. It is rather unbecoming of you. And go to the point — ask whichever questions you want, give me your take on all of this, I wish to know you better, but do it quickly. We have no time to lose.”

“Of course,” Harry says, trying to look collected and not at all as if he is wondering and panicking about what it is that awaits him. He sits up — his body appears unscathed, thanks _Merlin_ — and forces himself to meet Death’s stare. “I ... I had doubts, whether or not it was possible for me to stay there — on Earth? — permanently. That when Voldemort — that I might return here, that I might die after defeating Voldemort ... That his spell — that the Killing Curse he had cast on me would have finished me off if,” he pauses, flushing at the unimpressed stare Death bestows him with, and adds, gathering his thoughts, “— er — that the only reason I returned to life was to secure his death —”

He knows he isn’t making any sense, yet his newfound nervousness doesn’t stop him from talking some more and making an even bigger fool of himself. It’s a habit of his that Hermione — and Ron, to a lesser extent — abhor.

“Well?” Death drawls, looking handsomely bored. “Stop babbling and speak clearly, boy. You aren’t making much sense.”

He bits back the lump in his throat. For all his bravado, Harry is _afraid_. “He killed me, in the forest, didn’t he — it was just a matter of time, wasn’t it? I never stood a chance —”

Death’s face softens. “Calm down, my dearest child, and think.”

“He took my blood — the night Cedric died — and so we were linked. Linked enough that — that I couldn’t properly die because _he_ wasn’t dead. Because he was alive, and — and he tethered me to life, didn’t he? But now that he’s gone, so is my last connection to life .. He killed me for good in the forest,” he repeats duly, his hysteria subsiding, turning into something he’s familiar with.

_Grief. For the life he could have had._

Whatever he’s said — about his cold, ruthless murder — had been met with a raised bow. The statement he had declared — sentences he knows should be best left off with no furthering — is not a question, but the answer, as unwanted and unfeeling as what has brought him here, comes nevertheless. “He did. But fear not, Harry, for you aren’t _dead,_ and though I wished you’d come to this obvious conclusion alone,” Death pauses and studies him before continuing, “it is in fact impossible for you to die — well, for the time being, that’s it. It’s impossible for you not to _exist_ — ah! I’m not finished,” It glares at him, and Harry flatters, the words dying on his lips, “your mortal body, as opposed to your immortal soul, is an entirely different matter. As of right now, your little friends are trying to wake you. A vain attempt — regrettably, since I would rather wish you there with them than here disturbing me .. though I must admire their determination. For while your human bones will remain intact, cared for by the people that love you — you will never, ever wake up.”

The thought of Ron and Hermione — _of hurting Ron and Hermione_ — fuels his rage more than the mention of his apparent decaying body ever would, and he couldn’t ignore the burning in his chest no longer. “I can’t do that to them. I _won’t_.”

It trails a hand in its hair. The action is human in nature, and doesn’t suit Death in the least. “I’m afraid you no longer have a choice in the matter. Your soul is _here_ , the prophecy is completely void, and you are not needed there. Tom Riddle is dead.”

“It isn’t a question of being needed - I didn’t get to _live_ —” Harry says, feeling bolder by the minute.

Death tuts disapprovingly at his tone. “It is _always_ a question of being needed. And you will — live, that’s it. You’d find it’ll get boring eventually; not all that exciting, but _not_ _now_ , and not here. The Fates love you too much, too terribly, after all — only the best, for their Chosen One. It is by no means a small feat, I must say, though it will not do, not at all, to have a deity favoring a mortal born so.”

 _What’s that even supposed to mean?_ Then the reality of the words catches up to him — “A mortal born? The fate? I — I don’t understand.”

“Fates, capital F, plural,” corrects Death. It holds his chin up, examining him, sharply eyeing the cuts on his bloodied, bruised face. “You wouldn’t understand now, would you?”

“Then explain it to me,” says Harry, “ _I beg of you_.”

“So as long as you’re begging.” Death sighs — a tired sound that alarms him. “You were born a mortal — a human baby, whatever traces to the gods you had laid dormant. Not until that fateful night, seventeen years ago.”

“Yes, everything traces back to _that_ night,” he seethes.

“From then on, you were watched — tested, called on. You see, child, this lifetime had been a test of some sort. Consider it a quest. All these tasks — these years at Hogwarts, these dangers — were set up to see you reach your full potential.”

“You’re not making any sense,” Harry snaps, so angry he had started to shake. “What do you mean, tests? Set by whom? I almost died every year!”

“And now you are as immortal as that old, wrinkled fool you wizards love so much .. You are luckier than most, Harry Potter — and it is the way of things. Heroes need hardship — your talks of wanting to lead a normal lifestyle is very hypocritical, when you leap into danger whenever you have a chance.”

“It’s not true,” Harry whispers, aghast. He is so, so _tired_. “It’s not — I am always thrown into it.”

“Ah, truly? Please. You are my Champion, the one and only true Master of Death — yes, I had to award, for you alone reunited the Deathly Hallows, despite wanting nothing to do with them — but this wasn’t the _only_ reason. You were my champion long before all that, Harry Potter, and I watched you grow, as I watched your father before you, and his father before him, and so on. The Cloak was in your pocket, the Wand in your hand, and you were drenched in the Stone’s scent when at last you defeated Lord Voldemort. All three presents I, in my foolishness, had gifted my children. Just — what did _you_ expect would happen? That you would die, be reunited with those you knew, and that’s it? That it’s finished?”

Harry perks up, face white. “Your children ..? You mean the Peverell brothers were — ”

“Yes,” Death answers, gaze vacant, and It almost seems sad. “You are my descendant, the last one of them — as is Tom, though cutting one’s soul into seven pieces is something even I abhor. There is a reason you two have always been different — special, even. Two sides of the same coin, a coin I crafted with utmost care. You are not needed there, Harry. It is time for you to let go.”

He nods, face pale and drawn. “I see — I see. I — I have a feeling you aren’t going to tell me more.”

“You are taking the news in stride, all things considered.”

“It’s a habit of mine I’m quite proud of, really. I learn shocking things every day. I am also — er, having a mini heart attack, not that you care. No worries, though, since I’m dead. Or not. My head stopped working the moment you said the word _immortal._ Also, wrinkled fool? You’re not talking about Merlin, are you?”

Death’s lips stretched into a wide smile, purple eyes gleaming in amusement. It raises a glowing hand, and Harry realizes the dismissal for what it is. “Farewell, Harry Potter. It is time for you to go on. We shall meet again.”

“ _No_! What did you mean by _not here, not now._ Where am I going — _wait!_ — hang on a tic — Merlin, now that’s one abrupt exist. I didn’t get to ask any questions — you can’t just leave — can’t I decide at least when you’ll leave? I mean, aren’t I the _Master of Deat_ —”

* * *

He couldn’t open his eyes, too tired as he is. The floor feels hard and wet below him, and quite uncomfortable, too, and still, Harry couldn’t muster the force to move, no matter how much he wants to.

He hears noises above him — voices — and fear squeezes his chest. Some of the words are completely foreign to him.

A woman is whispering furiously under her breath. He tries his best to listen. Her voice is so far away. “ _Alors? Qu’en penses-tu? Il ne peut pas avoir plus de dix-huit ans_ —”

“ _Tu sais aussi bien que moi que le choix te revient, madame. Il ne semble pas pouvoir bouger_ — _étrange, vu son absence de blessure_ — _à part cette cicatrice. Regarde moi ça_ — _elle est maudite_ —”

“ _Mon cher, ce n’est pas le moment de s’attarder sur une chose pareil_!”

The man seems properly chastised. “ _Mes sincères excuses._ ”

Harry opens his eyes. All he can see is a messy blur and shifting forms. A hand caresses his cheek, gently, almost maternally. The first voice resonates once again, determined this time, and Harry feels strangely touched at the unmistakable concern. “ _On ne va pas le laisser mourir de froid ici._ ”

Some of the fear melts away, but not enough to calm his racing heart.

“ _Bien entendu,_ ” responds the other one, as if this is the most reasonable course of action — bringing a stranger into your home. The man — whose voice is somewhat familiar, though from where Harry cannot place it — raises him in his arms. “ _Il tremble, le pauvre._ ”

“I’m a wizard,” Harry tells them, almost desperately, trusting his guts — that this is no ordinary middle-aged couple. “I’m a wizard, not a muggle, please — ”

And then he falls into unconsciousness.


End file.
